Lost Lamplight
by AntiWritersBlock
Summary: The name's Nick Valentine- but this one isn't about me. It's about a compulsive liar that slips up his act, an interesting form of discovery, and hard decisions. Pull up a chair and experience angst and heartbreak for either the first or fifteenth time, depending on just how long you've been on this website.


Hey there. My name is Nick Valentine, private eye. You may want to do yourself a favor and read my voice in a more human tone than it is, unless you like the scruffy robot type. I'm a Gen-2 synth, not blatantly robotic but still certainly not human. I'm getting off track. This story isn't about me, I'm just the narrator. This one's all about the Commonwealth's most elusive organization- and the both most and least organized eluder of them.

It was late at night, and the Railroad HQ was quieter than it normally was. There were still agents getting dispatched, heavies getting fixed up, armor being modified, hammers being clanged, and so on. All work, so little talk. Actually, it seemed no one was talking except for when an assignment was being given. Even then, it didn't last long. It's not like HQ was known for the flowing conversation, but sometimes Tinker Tom would go and show Desdemona, or anyone willing to listen, an invention of his; sometimes Doctor Carrington would chat with whoever he was working on about little tips on how to lessen the pain of a wound. Glory would entertain a majority of agents by getting Drummer Boy red until Desdemona told her to knock it off. Little pranks Deacon-

Ah, Deacon. That's why HQ was so quiet.

About one and a half weeks ago, Deacon was sent on a five-day mission to find information on an eligible recruit for the Railroad. Knowing Deacon, Desdemona (and most everyone else) knew he would not come back in five day. It was always either one day, half the assigned days, or one extra day. Once, he went two extra days. When he walked in with that dumb smile and stupid laugh, it went down. Not the yelling, raving, burning kind of "it". It was as if all the rage and worry compressed itself into one Railroad agent. Glory. He was about to say some sort of jokey lie when his eyes fell on her. The grin dropped from his face faster than a bullet. That day ended with Deacon's cheek and mind imprinted with a lesson.

" _Never. Again."_

Everyone knew that after six days, he would not come back for a while. Glory wanted to be angry, but she couldn't. Hell, it was about the only time all of HQ _wanted_ to see Glory go on a rampage. But they couldn't. Everyone left everyone else to themselves on the matter. On about day eight they left out some new dead drops in case he might see them. Nothing was ever touched.

It was the twelfth day of Deacon's disappearing act when a fresh-faced agent came scrambling through the emergency tunnel. Their most recent assignment was to check in, out, and around a secured building to see if it fit Safehouse protocol.

You could hear their boots sloshing enthusiastically though the dank, murky water of the crowded brick tunnel. It was one of the loudest noises anyone had heard in HQ for days. Ok, maybe not the loudest, but it definitely caught everyone's attention. The noise stopped for the smallest second, and then was instantly replaced with footsteps. Now this- _this_ was one of the louder noises.

The short, heavy footsteps ran as fast as they could into the main part of the HQ, people all but jumping to get out of the way. The agent must have not been used to running so quickly, as they failed to stop before they slammed right into Desdemona. She didn't have time to be annoyed before the agent got off her and said their apology, bowing their head.

"I accept your apology, Nile, but why were you running in the first place?"

If someone wasn't paying attention before, they sure were now. Agent Nile's brown eyes shined as they moved their short torso upright.

They fiddled with their hands at first, though maintaining eye contact, saying, "I finished my primary assignment early, and the area is mostly secure except for a Super Mutant nest a few blocks east. I decided to check my dead drop…"

Desdemona cut them off, her eyes widening. "The one in Lexington? You went all the way to _Lexington_ to check a _dead drop?_ " She didn't sound made. She sounded amazed. Thankfully, she didn't scare the poor, already intimidated agent.

Nile continued, "Yes, very sorry. But it wasn't a waste of time. The dead drop…the dead drop…well, here. Read it for yourself. You should."

They handed Desdemona a rather wrinkled piece of paper. It was one of the messages they left for Deacon. _"The priest must come back to the church to preach"_ was scrawled around the top-middle, looking rushed from the shaky hands that wrote it. Desdemona's eyes passed over the words, instead looking at the very bottom of the page. It read:

 _Your "priest", it seems, is beginning to lose faith. Here, listen:_

Agent Nile handed her the obnoxiously orange holotape that was on top of the paper. Before she could even say his name, Tinker Tom took the tape to his terminal. Of course it had to be decoded. It took far too long, but they finally were able to watch the grimed screen as the holotape loaded a video.

"T5-68. You've been missing for quite a long time."

"That's not my name."

"Deacon isn't your 'name', T5-68. How many times will I repeat that until you understand?"

"Oh, we'll be here a while. Trust me. You'll never break this package."

The video on the tiny screen of the terminal cut to a shot of the courser's upper frame. It was…ominous. It had a masculine figure that was all black, except for its dark skin. It was like looking at a shadow. The speculation was rather appropriate, considering how many of the sunglasses-wearing killing machines had slipped into and eliminated Safehouses before anyone in the murky brick catacombs of the Railroad HQ suspected anything.

"The Institute is very aware of your operations, Railroad. You used to be a mere nuisance to us, but the circumstances have changed. Your agent has informed us of a very large operation that we will put an end to. 'Operation Lamplight', as your agent has informed us, has a Package that needs to be secured. If you want this to end without blood, we expect to see one of yours carrying the Package at the C.I.T. ruins. If not, I can find you, and 'Deacon' will not be seen as you remember him." The video ended, the synth's cold, monotone, unwavering voice leaving chills down the group's spines. Lamplight? Package? They were all familiar terms, but they were all attached to certain codes and trails. Deacon would be the last person to spill what they meant. Things were either going really good, or really, really bad for him.

That's when Glory spoke up. "I think," she said, a small tremble in her voice that was hardly hidden, "I know what we need. Or at least what Deacon needs."

Desdemona nodded her direction, "Alright everyone, we can have a discussion about this later. Glory, join me in the escape tunnel. The rest of you can go back to your former business." There were a few groans of complaint that disappeared as soon as Desdemona's death glare caught their eyes. She and Glory, an intimidating duo, made their way across the HQ to the old tunnel where agent Niles had come from.

They spoke in hushed voices, knowing others might try and listen in. It was more of a safety precaution than it was for secrecy. Deacon was going to check out a guy in a shady town- Goodneighbor. The place was crawling with chems, triggermen, anything that said bad news. And if you didn't blend in? Most people- the majority being a bit up-beat- were stabbed before sunrise. Lucky for Deacon, blending in was his bread and butter. All HQ knew about the guy was that he's a young mercenary who hangs out in the back of the Third Rail, Goodneighbor's most popular bar and lounge.

It was a long shot, but it was all they had.


End file.
